Red Telephone Booth
by starsforhearts
Summary: Francis is spending time in England, so he and Arthur go to a pub for lack of anything better to do.  Set in the 70s; I hope it's realistic enough...? Rated T for heated... moments.  so not hot enough for France!


Hey guys, just wanted to say something real quick.. Um, unfortunately, this took me ages to get completed, and so its not exactly what I had daydreamed of... Yes, I did daydream the booth scene! I thought it was totally awesome, but apparently when I'm not role-playing, my -written- kiss moments are just... _bleh_. Either way, I hope your imagination enjoys this as much as mine did!

On my scale, I give this piece a max of 6 1/2; if that - I want to know what you think. **Please read and review**; it makes me smile every time someone from (let's just say) The Netherlands sees my story...

If you didn't already know (which I doubt, you silly fan girls);  
>Angleterre is French for England,<br>Non is no,  
>Mon cher is my dear,<br>And yes, I did amazingly enough(read: sarcasm) research some things for it. Yes, my friends, that car is real, wasn't allowed for use in America (you stink Alfred!), but is soo beautiful.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Telephone Booth<span>**

"It's quite beautiful…" Francis said politely, breaking that _damned_ silence. His azure eyes flashing to assess the other male instead of the sunset.

"If you think so…" the Englishman said matter-of-factly, but in that grumpy lethargic voice of his. He sighed an ran his already messy mop of hair. It was as if the angry red sun crawling behind rolling hills was akin to a picture seen once-too-many times. "What are you doing staring like that, frog?" adding the insult to show his annoyance - slight, albeit, but there nevertheless.

A familiar grin found its way to those lips. "Me? Staring? Nonsense." Those eyes shined, proud of gaining a response at all.

Arthur opened his mouth to rebuke, but closed it instead; a grumble slipped past. "Don't be an arse, ya bloody git." For some reason, his own hands were very interesting.

"Why do you never refer to me as Francis?" he questioned, unable to completely ignore the insult. His grin barely faltered because he had already built a concrete wall to support it.

"Because," Arthur mumble, feeling a little flustered. He caught himself, "Because I bloody can, frog!" he said at a decent volume. He huffed.

Francis didn't so much as slip… only his grin inwardly becoming a sour smile; those glistening eyes shaded ever so slightly. He found it was better just to keep his mouth shut, no matter how much he wanted to speak to this other (usually) wonderful man. For Arthur's funk was very likely to put a big damper on his already spoiling mood. Though, as it appeared (after several moments of thinking) keeping to themselves didn't settle much either.

Francis looked out the cottage window onto the vast plain of lush grass and crops. He remembered be chased through it earlier in the day. Laughing his French head off; it would've been romantic if not for the chaser yelling such bloody murder. Francis had only tackled him in a joking manner (if you asked him). Besides that, Arthur was the one to start the argument.

Thankfully, by the time Arthur caught up to him (out of breath), he just laid down a mere foot away from Francis. Who was sighing into the long grass.

"Angleterre… How about a drink, non?"

Arthur eyed him before nodding "Yes but where? There's nothing local."

He had a problem believing that, but ignored it nonetheless. "Surely there is a pub in London." Francis thought his suggestion was spectacular - they'd go see the city just as it was turning the lights on.

"But London's too _far_ and I'm not in the mood for all that jazz!" he complained almost immediately; obviously holding back a pout.

'_Not in the mood,' eh? _Francis thought spitefully. "Yes, princess," why did he feel the need to snarl? "Well you're the one who lives here, I trust you know a couple pubs." That grin had knowledge.

Arthur blushed faintly, "Wanker."

Francis said nothing - he just waited for an actual reply. Though his head did tilt, and he batted his eyelashes in a way sure to fluster him.

He tried to growl, "Fine," That sparkle returned to Francis' eye. "but we're taking your bloody car, and you will follow my directions _exactly_." he said, in case of the worst.

"Oh, mon cher, it's a shame you don't trust me." he remarked back with a smirk ever-present.

Arthur was being to get impatient - what? The idea of a beer was just really enticing! - so he got to his feet and slung his jacket over a shoulder. Also patting down his paper-boy style hat into place. "Stop gloating and get a move on."

"Of course, my princess." Francis said as he reached out to brush Arthur's cheek. Which naturally he batted away with a grumble of "frogs". Francis laughed.

They made their way out to his drop-top machine. 1970 Citroën DS 21; complete with red leather seats, and a white finish. Advanced everything. Hell, the headlights swiveled! Arthur had to admit - it was quite the automobile.

Francis flashed a proud smile, "You only wanted to take mine because you love it so!" he taunted.

"On the contrary, I'd rather burn up your fuel than mine." he snapped back, sliding into the passenger's seat. Francis shook his head.

"Whatever you think, princess." he smiled as he got into his own seat.

"And stop calling me that!"

The rest of the ride was quiet, besides the few lefts or rights he mumbled. Francis was just trying to get used to driving in a different nation. It had changed a lot around England in the past century or so; but France was eager to accept it.

After over a half hour long drive, they arrived in a quaint town. Both sides of the street were bordered by sidewalk and shops. All were closed, a select few had neon lights glowing boldly enough to prove their existence. And there were even some telephone booths scattered every so often. As they continued further in, sounds of the radio could be heard tumbling out from what was obviously the local tavern.

Once pulled over and parked Francis asked, "Shall we?" Arthur answered by getting out, closing his door just _a little _too roughly, and walking across the street. And of course, Francis wasn't far behind.

It wasn't too busy tonight, only a few men - and fewer women - were scattered around. The pool table was full, though, and the small cigarette vendor in the corner was nearly run out. "Evenin' Art!" the bartender welcomed, putting away a recently used rag. He nodded, seeming slightly ashamed - at least to Francis. But what did he know? They had only known each other since basically forever…

He walked right up and sat in the swivel stool, "Two beers if you please, Mort." Mort gave him a questioning look. "One's for this here Francis."

Francis smiled up at the tender called Mort as he sat down. And pretended he didn't see the sourness in that smile. Damn Brits could hate the French all they wanted, the French shall only return the favor. "Haters gonna hate." or something along those lines, Alfred had said once.

They both nodded as they were handed their beers. And the drinking began. It poured through their systems, setting off their stomachs and livers. The cocktails warmed them all the way to their toes, but still raised goose-flesh.

Not long after the first few loosening sips, they started chatting about the weather. And since it was Francis and Arthur, you were more likely to consider it arguing. They like to say it was debating.

"My weather is _always_ beautiful, France! Much better than _yours_." Arthur grumbled.

"Non, Angleterre! In my land I can at least have a clue of what it's going to be like." Francis replied, his accent somehow becoming _more_ prominent.

"Yeah right, aahaha, Frenchie, that's because I'm better.~" his hics could be heard every so often, and downed the last of his drink when he finished.

"Ahh whatever." Francis, still self-aware in his tipsiness, was going to shut Arthur's mouth for him, but then thought of all the other times he did. Maybe it was best to just look away.

This continued on for a while, until Francis insisted they start heading back. Arthur was defiant at first, unwilling to leave his precious rum, but gave in. Only because he was tired of that accent ruining his language! No way was it because of anything else.

And so they walked out of the pub, to find that it was raining. Well, more of stumbled out to find the sky falling. Just _a little _bit.

Under the influence and oddly dumb-struck, they just stood there for a couple seconds, unsure of what to do. Then, the already dripping wet, Arthur turned and stepped the four paces to a small red booth. Tugging on Francis' sleeve, gesturing for him to follow. And he did of course, since Arthur's grip was quite strong this time, and he nearly fell into the small space.

In which the two of them were pressed rather tightly together. Arthur closed the door as best he could to stop even more of the rain. Their hot, alcohol-stained breath mingled, creating a oddly pleasant humid atmosphere.

"…Angleterre?" Francis questioned while trying to fight the creeping lazy feeling in his body.

Arthur looked up from his jacket, back into his eyes. And boldly stared for a solid minute. All of a sudden, Arthur locked their lips together. Not roughly, but certainly not in a gentle way.

It surprised Francis, of course, but naturally he kissed back.

The kiss quickly escalated to a bruising, pressure-filled kiss. Arms snaked around the opposite, warming their cold bodies. Arthur's hands tangling in Francis' wavy mane; willing him closer still. Francis nibbled, then Arthur moaned, leaving his mouth open for Francis' quick one.

Their tongues clashed and shared saliva. I assure you France would call it a "beautiful tango". They fought and pressed against each other, until the English tongue gave in, and allowed the French to explore. And he gladly accepted the offer; touching as many crevices in reach.

Eventually Arthur - who got bored, and out of breath, from twisting his around Francis' - pulled away panting. Francis, though, who had had the upper hand, was nearly fine, and so he lightly bit and tugged down his jaw, and around the lobe of his pierced ear. His shivered at the hot breath on his skin.

"Ah… ahh, Francis…" Francis rolled his lips against one another around his earlobe in response. He rolled his eyes, "S-stop."

Sigh. "Why?"

"Well, for one, I'm being pressed against a bloody _phone._" And he was. His back was arched out from the phone in the corner, which had actually fallen off of the receiver.

"But that adds to the fun of it.~" Francis purred as he pulled back to look at the disheveled man. "Oh, don't look at me like that."

Arthur gave him a look. "So… how are we going to get back?" he asked.

"Well, I could easily be considered drunk by any police officer," he started, ignoring Arthur's protest, "and as you know it is no good to drive this way, non?" Arthur huffed.

"Since when have you been so bad at coming up with excuses?"

Dramatic gasp. "Am I really?"

"Oh shut up." Arthur pulled him closer a little roughly until their foreheads touched, and shut his lips for him.


End file.
